


Holiness

by SpiritWorld



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt, Spoilers for 2x4, character centric, church, kind of, pondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritWorld/pseuds/SpiritWorld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reason he had come to an abandoned church in the heart of Gotham wasn’t to lament the disappearance of his mother. Or maybe it was. In reality he had no idea how he’d ended up there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiness

**Author's Note:**

> This is a writing practice I did to get me in the mood to write for Gotham. I used a word generator and the word I got was "holiest" so I went from there. For some reason it's suddenly winter in Gotham.

It was darker than he thought it would be, the stained glass windows only allowing the slightest bit of moonlight to filter through. The church looked decrepit in its abandoned state, the smell of mold pervading his frost tipped nose and stinging his nostrils. As he hobbled to the pulpit the floor boards groaned under him, screams piercing his ears but falling short of understanding. With each step it became harder to move his leg and, several times, he had to grip it with his hands and propel himself forward. 

The tips of his coat were frozen. It had rained, then snowed. He hadn’t had time to change. Shivers racked his body and with his last step he lurched forward assaulting the dust laden stand as he fell against it. Slowly he slid down to the floor, arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to get warmer. To his right he could see that one of the windows was shattered at the top, a hole where the Virgin Mary’s head was supposed to be. Outside, the snow continued to fall blanketing the city with wistful flakes. 

He removed his head from his knees at the ringing of the old bell. 

It had started with his visit to Galavan. The wretched man had had the idea, the audacity to convince him to drive Gotham into insanity. His plans were foolish; they meant nothing to the betterment of the city. Simply another man who thought he could rule what was never his to have. But it wouldn’t be that easy; he knew that much personally.

The city, she was alive. Her streets painted with the blood of civilians that dared to challenge her existence. She breathed in a way that swept her children into madness. From her came warriors, fighters that were incomparable to any other city in the world. She nurtured no one, her cruelty knowing no bounds as the underbelly of crime continued to swallow up those that weren’t strong enough to live up to her expectations.

Galavan was a weasel and she would consume him in due time. The slimy man had even attempted to flatter him. Oswald was no fool. A fool would not have outwitted Fish Mooney, Salvatore Maroni, and Don Carmine Falcone in a matter of months. He was cunning, it was his gift. But Galavan, he had no gift, no talent. A worm had snuck its way into the man’s heart and had begun to chew it rotten. 

Oswald thought the man to be dumb when he revealed that he had Barbara Keen. It was intriguing to know who had been behind the Arkham breakout. Soon it all became sour however when that equally putrid sister of his showed him their golden goose. They had his mother.

A cough racked the man’s throat and he had the good mind to remove his coat which had long become useless against the cold. 

His mother was a foolish woman in that she was easily deceived. She was too trusting, as exhibited by her fling with Maroni that still made him sick to his stomach. He had killed numerous men in or near their apartment yet she was blind to his actions. She was a sheep with no shepherd following whoever came along and never quite knowing whether they would put her on an altar or set her free. Nevertheless, she was his _mother ___. She had loved him when no one else would have, when no one else should have. When he was continuously promoted in the “restaurant” business she stood by him cheering him on in a way that drove a nail into his heart and he just didn’t have the strength to rip it out. She was to be protected, he had always assured she would be. That is until now.

Now, Galavan would pay for laying his grimy hands on the woman that had brought him up. The woman that hadn’t grown up in this vile city but braved her nonetheless. He envisioned the moment he would lay his hands on him. He was not one to dwell on the ideals of chaos but he swore he’d break the man in a way that would put his previous murders to shame. 

Oswald reeled back as a sharp pain made itself prominent in his head. He could feel a migraine coming on. 

The reason he had come to an abandoned church in the heart of Gotham wasn’t to lament the disappearance of his mother. Or maybe it was. In reality he had no idea how he’d ended up there. He’d last shared words with James Gordon and then briskly excused himself from the club. Again, Oswald was no fool. Butch was loitering around somewhere on the property, most likely near the entrance, ever vigilant. The snow had fallen quite a bit at that point and they had walked dressed inconspicuously. Not one word was spoken between the two of them. 

James Gordon. 

His mind went back to the man that had paid him a visit earlier. The detective had come alone which was no surprise. The once lone squeaky clean cop had now been tarnished by his doing. It wasn’t his fault really. If the man had been, even pretended to be, friends with him there would be no debts, only favors. It irked the mobster to admit that he was so blinded that if the detective were to have pretended Oswald wouldn’t have noticed. But he was too honest for even that. 

Personal gain. That’s all anyone came to him for and he had been foolish enough to think that Jim would be a friend to him. It was better to walk together in the dark than to walk alone in the light but if one of the men in the dark were to be dark as well then isn’t the other alone either way? “Friends” wasn’t a suitable word for their relationship. It was something different, deeper even. Their lives had been intertwined since that day Jim had chosen to spare his life on the dock. He knew he would, that is why he had convinced Falcone to assign James as his murderer. 

James had come to him asking one thing: why? Sitting in his emblematic throne he shook with the words that he had to conceal from the man. He remembered his hair being stuck to his forehead dripping with sweat. The question itself was simple, the answer more complex. The detective was right to be suspicious about his involvement in the politics of Gotham. He had no interest in the elections. It only mattered that whoever got elected would answer to him. Any of the others would have. 

Oswald carefully turned himself around to face the pulpit and sat with his knees under him, his bad leg throbbing from the movement. 

The operation had been sloppy from its conception. It took time to put together his plans, to think of everything that could go wrong. But his mind had been clouded by his mother’s capture. There was no time there was no rationale. The first woman he had stabbed bore the brunt of his frustration. 

The ground was cold but he had yet to get a splinter from the jagged boards. He didn’t know what time it was. It could have been ages since the last bell or minutes. Maybe it had been a few hours and he’d been too lost to hear it. 

Not knowing what he should do next he rose up on his knees and immediately began to laugh. The hollow noise reverberated across the room, echoing the confusion he felt. His mother had been religious once, maybe she still was. When he was young he would sometimes see her pray or read her bible. She had taught him mostly Old Testament stories. They fascinated her the most. He was not religious in the slightest. The irony he felt as he kneeled in front of the pulpit in a building that was once used for worship was worthy of laughter. 

“Hey boss!” 

Butch had finally come to check on him. He must have been getting cold. 

“You okay?” 

Putting his weight on his good leg, the man stood up and turned around to face his right hand man at the entrance. Picking up the coat he had previously discarded he made his way toward Butch. Was he okay? Oswald closed his eyes as he walked and envisioned his hands around the throat of Galavan, squeezing until his windpipe ruptured and all signs of his horrendous life were extinguished from his eyes. And, as he laid dead, he would continue his act of constriction until his thumbs pushed through the man’s skin and his head became completely detached from his body. Then he would be okay. 

“I will be soon.” 

The clock chimed again. It had been an hour. 


End file.
